by Doug Ward
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I awoke on the road beside my truck, right ear ringing as I propped myself up on my left elbow. Bo, Jim, and Bert were sitting around me in different states of recline.
"What the heck was that about?" I yelled at Bo, realizing my mistake as the ringing increased to a high-pitched whine as I spoke. My right hand immediately cupped the offending area.
The boys rolled back, hooting with laughter. Bert was literally rolling on his back and holding his belly as his flannel-and-camo-covered body shook with waves mirth.
"You shouldda seen yerself doing that faceplant," Jim explained through tobacco-stained teeth.
"You shot at me," I said, returning to my original question. I swiveled back toward Bo with one hand still holding my ear.
"No," he said. "I was shooting at him." He pointed at my still-open truck door.
I could see the blood spatters on the little bit of windshield viewable from my current position. I rose unsteadily to my feet, reeling from my recent ear trauma. There, in the midst of all the gore, was Ol’ Stan Drucker; headless, mind you.
"It was reaching for you when I came up beside the truck," Bo said solemnly. "I had to act fast. Who was he?"
I explained the events from earlier that day. They all lowered their eyes when I told them who had been with me. After I had finished, I listened to their stories. It seems they were out hunting when they came across their first undead. Being rednecks, those zombies didn't stand a chance.
"What are you gonna do now?" asked Jim.
"Your welcome to join us," offered Bo.
Looking back at my blood-splattered truck cab, I was having second thoughts about jumping in there. I had no idea how the illness, or whatever it was, jumped from person to person. I had first-hand knowledge of it being transferred through a bite, but what if it could occur from a scratch? I quickly looked at my lower pant legs. For the first time, I saw what the zombie camper had done to my jeans. Blood and a greasy stain were all over the front of the lower trouser legs. I gingerly lifted the pant leg where the creature had grabbed my ankle and it was clean; no scratches. As I dropped my jeans to inspect the opposite calf, I heard the boys gasp.
"Hey!" Bert blurted out. "We run a family zombie hunter squad here!" he chuckled, exaggeratedly waving both hands in the air while closing his eyes as tightly as possible. "If you want to continue killing the undead today, then you'll have to put your pants back on, please."
The others roared again in laughter as they feigned embarrassment. My face flushed as I hurried to inspect myself for any wounds. Finding none, I pulled my pants back in place and quickly closed my button and fly.
It was obvious. I couldn't take my truck and risk possible infection. But, I needed to get to Uncle Jeb. He could be in danger.
"Can I get a ride?" I asked no one in particular.
Bo grinned. "Sure, Talbot. I hope you won't mind riding in a piece of crap Chevy," he mocked, pointing to his bumper sticker of a boy peeing on a Ford symbol.
"I deserve that," I agreed, retrieving my Glock from where it had fallen out of my waistband. My shotgun was a loss in the truck, so I passed my 12 gauge shells on to Bert, who was sporting the same exact gun, make and all.
"Where are we off to?" Bo asked, leaning out of the open truck cab.
"I need to make sure my uncle, Jebediah, is ok."
Everyone froze. I guess I should explain. My uncle Jeb is rumored locally, and I guess even regionally, to be crazy. I don't think he's crazy. He's a survival nut. A Korean War veteran, he had come back and wanted to stay away from people, to hide from the world. He'd had enough of everything and just dropped off of the grid, not that there was much grid to speak of down in these hills. But, that just made it that much easier for him to disappear.
I climbed up into the bed of the pickup and they all piled into the cab. I noticed a few sideways glances from them before I settled with my back to the cab’s rear window. As my eyes grew heavy from the events of the last few hours, I could hear them arguing about what they should call themselves. "The Redneck Zombie Clean-up Crew... The Hillbilly Headshot Posse..."
I woke to the sound of shotguns firing and the hooting of my saviors. Gripping the side of the truck bed, I hauled myself up to see what was happening.
Bo and the boys had leapt from the truck and were off the road about twenty yards, looking at something in the grass. I quickly surveyed my surroundings for any danger and, feeling relatively safe, I took a seat on the cab roof.
In the movies, the living always seems to have boundless energy; constantly on the move, never taking a moment to rest or even relieve themselves. In reality, I was exhausted. Coming off of the adrenaline rush, I could have gone right back to sleep. I never did get that nap back at home.
Curiosity got the best of me as I rose once again and hopped down from the full-sized pickup. The dirt road gave way to brush as I approached my travel mates.
"What ya got?" I asked no one in particular.
"Bert shot us an eight point. The animals seem to be running scared!" Jim replied ,wiping his bloodstained knife in some grass. "I think them zombies are causing the critters to panic."
"We saw all kinda game just run right if front of the truck while you were taking yer nap," intoned Bo. "We stopped so we could shoot us some supper. Those zombies are probably the reason we got skunked while huntin’ this morning."
"Or, it could be ‘cause Bert ate all them baked beans last night," Jim chirped through a brown-toothed grin.
"Just keep that up and I won't share my cabbage stew with ya," answered Bert with a good-natured shove.
True-born hunters, the trio had the deer field dressed and ready to butcher in no time. As Bo carried the carcass back to the truck, Jim asked in a small, uncertain voice, "You don't think this ol’ deer is gonna get up and try to chomp on us, do ya?"
Everyone stopped walking. Turning toward the group with the buck's head hanging over his broad shoulder, Bo answered. "We'll keep him in the bed with Talbot. If he turns, won't be no loss." A slow, nervous grin spread across his face, but his comment brought no sign of mirth from the rest of the group. All eyes were on the carcass mostly hidden behind their leader’s bulky frame. As Bo turned and continued on to the truck, Jim bent and picked up a twig. He poked at the field dressed body with an air of caution, half expecting the beast to react to the torment. We didn't attempt to stop him. I think we were all waiting to see what would happen next.
Back at the truck, Bo dumped the body into the bed of the primer gray pickup, shocks reacting, squeaking loudly in protest to the sudden weight.
"Yer uncle’s cabin is over the next mountain, so jump in with your new bunkmate," Bo mocked while doing his best courtly bow.
Mustering all my courage. I climbed up into the open bed, keeping as far from the head of the deceased animal as I could. I squatted in the corner behind the cab.
As the guys piled back inside the vehicle, I stealthily pulled the Glock from my waistband and, hand shaking, I nonchalantly pointed the business end at the (hopefully) dead animal. As the truck started forward, it hit a rut in the unpaved road. The sudden drop made me lurch forward. My free hand shot forward and so did the gun. The buck’s head jumped with the impact of the bullet. The truck came to an immediate stop.
"What are you doing, Talbot?" yelled Bo as he slammed the transmission into park while opening the door. "Are you outta yer mind?"
"My weapon discharged ‘caus’a the bump you hit," I accused, trying to cover for my actions.
The boys came around to the back, examining the deer. There was a tiny bit of blood showing the bullet’s entry point. Bert had bled the deer right after gutting it.
"You shot it in the head," Bert moaned. "I was gonna mount it!"
"Sorry," I offered, feeling silly for my paranoia.
"I can't believe you were afraid of Bambi."
The boys slowly ret
urned to their seats. I felt silly. Still, how was I to know if the recently killed animal would rise and try to eat my brains? Bert wasn't the one stuck back here with the uncertainty of what would happen. He didn't stop Jim from poking the deer to see if it was aware.
The rest of the ride was short and uneventful. I replaced the missing bullet in the clip so the gun would be full, then settled in. I watched as the deer bounced rhythmically as we drove across a washed out section of the road. It gave me little comfort that the deer was headshot. The group had lost something. A part of our morale was now damaged. I felt even more like a misfit.
All too soon, the truck slid to a halt beside an overgrown path used as his driveway. "This is your stop, Talbot," he said in a rather abrupt manner.
"You guys aren't coming?"
They all looked at each other. "I don't think so," offered Jim. "Ya see, yer uncle is crazy. We heard rumors that some people who go back there never come back out." The others shook their heads in agreement.
I didn't blame them. I had heard those same rumors whispered when people thought I couldn't hear. I didn't believe them; but I, myself, hadn't been to his cabin in more than ten years. He always came to my house, driving up in his old, rusted out Jeep CJ-5. When I offered to come out and visit, his eyes would get wild and he would make me promise that I would never pop in on him for any reason.
I didn't know what he was doing way out here, but he was family and I always
